


Night Music

by LondonGypsy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-30
Updated: 2012-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-11 01:35:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LondonGypsy/pseuds/LondonGypsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of the violin and finds out a little more than he expected. (I totally suck at summaries - basically its fluff)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Music

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my very first JohnLock and Im pretty surprised that it went that well.  
> Usually I find it quite hard to write anything without that little knowledge in a subject/fandom but I guess this one just wanted to be written...  
> Not complaining, just happy my Muse accepted the new pairing so easily.
> 
> As usual a huge thanks to my beloved Beta and for the first time beta'ing/brit picking (and doing such an amazing job as well) my lovely second Beta.  
> Thank you Ladies, I love you. Any remaining mistakes are mine.

Waking in the dark, irritated as to what had torn me out of my sleep, I roll around, listening.

The soft sound of the violin is piercing through the dim lights filling my bedroom.

I can barely hear it and still, the quiet and tender sound of it makes me get up and wander towards the parlor from where the music came.

The room is just as dark as the entire flat, only the diffuse glow from a street lantern spends some light.

The music is hardly louder than what I heard in my room but it's more intense, more…haunting; it gets to me, crawls under my skin and I shiver and rub my arms as if I’m freezing, even though the room is quite warm.

I can hear rain splatter against the window like gentle percussion, enhancing the play of the violin; the notes are drifting through the air, filling the space and making the quietness of the night even deeper.

I stand still, oddly aware of everything around me: the carpet under my bare feet, cool against my sleep-warmed soles; the faint chill coming from an edge of the room, making me shudder again; the smell of smoldering wood in the rarely used fireplace, dying in a fading glow.

But my eyes are fixed on the other side of the room, drawing all of my attention, all of my senses towards it.

A lean figure stands by the window, tall and dark against the black glass, and when I narrow my eyes I can see the bow moving over the strings, eliciting the most delicate sounds.

I know he knows I'm here but we both remain silent, leaving the other one to his own thoughts.

My eyes have adjusted to the dim light and I can make out the shape of his head: the ridiculous mop of his hair, and the long neck, tilted to the side to secure the violin between shoulder and chin, as the bow tenderly slides over the strings.

I get lost in the sight of his hand and his long fingers, holding the instrument firmly, yet I can almost see a caress, like he'd be holding a loved one.

“Did I wake you?”

His voice startles me, tears me out of my thoughts, even though I should be used to it by now.

He doesn't move, doesn't stop playing, and I feel a smile twitch over my lips.

“To be honest,” I say, moving towards him, “yes, you did.”

“I’m sorry."

“No, you're not. Besides, there are worse ways to get woken,” I reply softly.

I stop only a few steps away from him; his stance and the way he grips the neck of the violin now tells me that he wouldn’t allow me to come closer.

“Composing?” I ask, trying to remember if I had heard that piece before.

A dark curl falls in his face as he nods sharply, and now I see the sheets on the stand and the pen lying next to it.

I make an approving noise, not expecting an answer; I don’t ask if he slept or ate, as I know he didn’t.

He's wrapped up in his own thoughts and there's nothing I can do about it, but I don’t want to leave him like that.

He has stopped playing; the bow rests, our breathing the only sound in the room now.

“I'll leave you alone then,” I suggest, already taking a step back.

“No.”

It's so quiet I’m almost certain I didn’t even hear it. But as he picks up the playing again, I’m fairly sure I’m allowed to stay.

I still put some space between us; I know he needs that and I settle in the armchair next to the fireplace, watching him.

His profile is so unique, so striking, and it has me astounded all over again with its sharp cheekbones, the straight nose and the sensual swing of his lips, even visible in the low lights.

He has his eyes closed now, no longer composing; well, of course not,now that I am here, he can't concentrate enough anymore.

But that's okay, he'll keep playing, pieces he knows better than anybody else, music he probably knows even better than the original composer.

I pull my knees up and hide my rapidly cooling feet under a blanket, hanging over the armrest of the chair.

The music fills the room, surrounds me, fills every cell of my body, vibrates through my veins like adrenaline and embraces me like the blanket over my feet, warming me from my inner core better than any duvet could do.

Slowly, almost unrecognizably the music changes, goes from the quick, pacing piece to a slow, sad composition until it eventually fades and a deep silence falls.

“John?”

I blink my eyes open; I didn’t notice that I had drifted in and out of sleep again.

“Go back to bed, John,” he said quietly, watching me closely, the violin forgotten in his hand.

There's something in his eyes I don’t understand. Well, I don’t understand most of what's going on in his head anyway, but this is such an utterly new expression on his face that I frown up at him.

“What?” he asks roughly, turning back to the window but I'm on my feet in a heartbeat, carefully taking the instrument out of his hands.

I surprised him, that’s the only reason he lets me do so and my heart jumps at the fact that I can still do that.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” he snarls, but despite the fact that he clearly feels uncomfortable he's not moving away.

I realize that I'm still holding the instrument in one hand and I carefully place it on the chair, suddenly becoming aware that my other hand is still gripping his wrist.

My eyes flew up to find his dark gaze on me, mysterious and deep as always.

I can feel his pulse under my finger, thudding unusually rapidly against my skin, and I tremble.

Time stands still, silence stretches between him and me, and I'm not able to take my eyes off of his.

His eyes have always fascinated me and I've spent quite a while attempting to figure out their color.

In the dim lights falling through the window now they look deep black, framed by long black lashes, staring at me with an intensity that had me squirm.

In bright daylight, though, they have all kinds of color, always depending upon the lights around him, the shade of colors of the clothes he wears, or simply the mood he's in.

I've seen them blue, bright and sparkling as the summer sky over London, or green as the lake in Hyde Park when the sun sets. Sometimes they're gray and overcast like a typical November day, and on rare occasions they shimmer golden and transparent.

I gave up trying to pinpoint their color; all I know is that I've never seen anyone who could express so much only with his eyes.

Now this gaze is pinning me down, deducing me, reading me like an open book and I feel naked, bared down to my very soul and I take a step back, letting go of his wrist.

His eyes narrow and he reminds me of a tiger, observing, preying, making me feel small.

“Don’t,” I croak, trying to look away but I can't; I'm hypnotized, paralyzed by the depth, the wonders I suddenly can see in his face.

“Sherlock??”

My voice doesn't sound like mine, it's small and wondering and he jerks a little as I say his name.

And suddenly his eyes grow big and he exhales heavily, muttering a silent “obvious” into the room.

“What's obv...?” but his elegant fingers cupping my face make the words die away.

I feel every breath he takes, feel every single fingertip on my cheeks, feel the cool palms pressing against my burning skin.

I’m still trying to figure out what's happening as his mouth brushes over mine, shooting a cascade of feelings through my body.

His lips linger on mine, slowly sweeping over them, sparking all kinds of sensation in me. He's mapping my mouth with his own, his hands holding me gently, his thumb absently stroking my cheekbone.

My eyes flutter closed, my hands hesitantly settle first on his hips and as I want to feel him closer, on his shoulders, holding on.

He makes a tiny sound, somewhat between a hum and a moan and that noise, right there, tips me off. I bury my hands in his wild hair, pull him close and kiss him back.

The first touch of his tongue against mine has me groan with pleasure and he immediately tightens his grip, one arm slides down my back, pressing me against his lean, long body.

His mouth is warm, his lips soft, and as he slides his tongue along mine, curling tenderly around it, I realize, this is something only I would get.

Nobody else had been that close to him before, nobody had shared his life like I did this past year, and nobody has seen so many sides and facets like I have in my time living with him.

Not one single person has been so close to him like I was... am, I am the only one, allowed to be that close to him, see the vulnerability he hides from the world.

I smile into the kiss, aware that he must notice it, but there's enough time to explain later.

Small sounds of pleasure mix in the air; I'm pressing closer to the beautiful body in my arms. I can't wait to lay him down on my bed and map every single inch of his satiny skin with my hands and my lips, can't wait to leave marks on that pale flesh, outstanding and visible for days, can't wait to have him moan my name in ecstasy when I show him how much I want him.

But for now I am content with kissing him, feeling his breath quickening, feeling his hands on my neck and my back, pulling me as close as possible, deepening the first kiss.

My first kiss with Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
